


Mother Mary

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, F/M, M/M, Necrophilia, Oedipal Issues, Past Jessica Moore/Dean Winchester, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam always takes such good care of Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Mary

Sam’s learned not to damage them too much. Slit wrists can be covered up more easily than a slit throat. Sometimes, Sam’s able to rein in his own bloodlust to give Dean a perfect night. A little shot of air right into their veins or a little of whatever substance he can get mixed into their drink.

 

Dean’s not sure how Sam’s got such a knack for finding these girls. When Dean was on his own, he managed well enough, but there was always something off - their hair was too dark or their eyes were brown. Dean had to settle for what he could get.

 

Sammy though. His darling little Sammy has taken such good care of him ever since he’d come back. The first girl had been Jess. She wasn’t the best, necessarily, but the most special. Sam had loved her, had _known_ her, and he’d choked the life right out of her petite little body just for Dean.

 

This one though. She’s one of the best in a while. Top five even. Her hair’s curled perfectly, freckles dusted across her cheeks, and her eyes are still green, not too clouded with time. Sam’s put her in a long, white nightie, demure and spotless; he’s even painted her nails a soft baby pink.

 

“J-Jesus, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. He’s already weak in the knees, trembling as he reaches out to touch the lacey hem of the nightgown. In an instant, the warm, solid strength of Sam’s chest presses up behind him, bracing him up as long fingers pluck the buttons of his shirt undone.

 

“Didn’t hardly touch her. She was too perfect,” Sam breathes, undoing Dean’s jeans and pushing them to the floor. “It’s okay, big brother. Go on. She’s waiting for you.”

 

Dean manages to toe off his socks and makes his unsteady way onto the bed. He faintly registers that Sam’s settling into the creaky motel room chair, but that doesn’t matter right now. Soft, cool skin greets his palm as he runs a gentle hand over her ankle, gripping each one  carefully to draw her legs apart. Her legs are shaved smooth, right up to her curly mound. Sam’s put her in panties, plain cotton and Dean can’t help but appreciate the touch.

 

Easing between her thighs, Dean leans down to peck her lips sweetly. He cups one hand over a breast and massages it with his palm through the fabric. Her hair is soft between his fingers, and Dean can’t help but curl a lock of it around them, smoothing it back down as he moves down.

 

A kiss to her throat gives him a whiff of sweet perfume, flowery over the vaguest hint of death. There’s a row of pearl buttons that Dean thumbs open, folding back the fabric so he can mouth at her chest. He suckles each nipple, pressing his face close and closing his eyes as his lips work around her breast. Dean’s panting when he pulls away, desperation making his hands tremble even more.

 

Sam shifts, making the chair creak, and Dean rucks up her nightie so he can look at her belly. He nearly skips nuzzling at it, skips playing with her pussy, feeling guilty for keeping Sam waiting, but his brother knows him too well.  

 

“Take your time, Dean. It’s okay to take it slow. She deserves that, doesn’t she?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean answers hoarsely. “Yeah, Sammy, thank you.”

 

Laying his head down on her torso, Dean slides one finger along her pussy. He loves the feel of it through the panties, tracing the edges along both lips and wishing for once that he could get her wet. Still, he sits up, lifts her hips to slide the panties off and lays them gently on the bed. She still tastes good, clean and tangy as he laps at her, nosing at the neatly-trimmed curls.

 

Dean’s shaking arms barely hold him up as he braces himself over her. The first push in is almost more than he can take, and he has to screw his eyes shut to rein himself in. Slow and steady is key, gentle swivels of his hips to push deeper into her. It’s easy to drop his face against her throat and lose himself to the motion of his thrusts.

 

The sounds of his panting and the creak of the bed are all that break the silence of the motel room. Dean could be ashamed of the desperate whine that breaks loose from his throat, but the only one there to hear it is Sam, and, well. Sam’s made him whine like that more than once.

 

With a weak sound, Dean comes, hot against cold flesh. He spares a moment to button up her nightie, surreptitiously wiping his tear-streaked face and straightening the fabric to cover her bare pussy and legs.

 

Sam guides him to the shower, turns it on hot just the way Dean likes it. He showers until the hot water is gone, and the girl has disappeared when he comes out, still damp. Dean never asks what Sam does with them; truthfully, he’d rather not know.

 

It’s another hour before Sam gets back, and Dean shifts into  the strong arms that wrap around him, finally relaxing enough to drop off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s shitfaced drunk when it happens. They’d botched an easy hunt, gotten a couple killed and left a toddler orphaned by the time they’d figured out that they’d fucked up.

 

He stumbles into the bathroom, leaving Sam to flop down morosely on the bed. Dean rinses his mouth out, having puked in an alley on the way back from the bar, and tries to suck down some water in a half-assed attempt to stave off the inevitable hangover.

 

Splashing cold water on his face, Dean dries off and stares at himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, shadowed by sleepless nights, he can feel the sob building in his chest. Swallowing it down makes his eyes water and his head  spin, vision blurring and that’s when he sees it.

 

Half of him wants to be sick, when he realizes just how much he looks like Mom. Sure, it’d been said, but Dean had never let himself see it.

 

He sees it now.

 

The rest of him wants something, anything - a gun, a knife, another slug of whiskey - but no. No, Sam’s waiting for him in the bed, he can’t fucking leave Sammy behind.

 

Dropping to his knees, Dean forces up the water he drank and a good deal more liquor. He rinses his mouth one more time and tumbles out of the bathroom and into bed with his brother. Sam’s passed out, reeking of booze and snoring loud, but he still instinctively pulls Dean close when Dean clambers in next to him.

 

Dean just clings to the solid shape of Sam, shoving away the twisted thoughts trying to nudge their way into his brain.

 

* * *

 

 

It should be freaky, looking at his own dead body. The shifter looks exactly like him, right down to the last freckle. Dean tries to hide the tremble in his fingers as he yanks his amulet off the creature’s neck, but Sam doesn’t miss it.

 

“We can’t.”

 

Dean grunts in irritation at the sharp tone in his brother’s voice. “I know that. M’not stupid.”

 

With a sigh, Sam grips his wrist. “Didn’t mean it that way. This is a good out for you. Legally dead makes for a pretty good way to clear your name.”

 

And yeah, Sam’s right. They leave the shifter where it is and watch the news reports about the death of Dean Winchester until they’re far enough out of range that the local stations aren’t covering the killings in St. Louis.

 

Sam waits until they’re settled in at a motel along the coast of Oregon to bring it up. He’d fucked Dean hard and fast, left him sweaty and breathless so he could pounce. Sometimes, little brother was too fucking clever.

 

“So the shifter,” he starts off, faux-casual as he grabs Dean’s arm to keep him from fleeing. “Dean.”

 

Telling is easier than hiding. Dean’s learned that much from being with Sam, but he’s almost crying as soon as he starts to speak.

 

“The girls, they - you do good, Sammy. They’re so fucking good but I -”

 

“You look like Mom.” Sam’s whisper sounds stunned. “So the shifter. . .”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sam doesn’t say much else, but he doesn’t leave either, much to Dean’s relief. Instead, he keeps them laying low for weeks, steadily tracking down the west coast, staying as far away from St. Louis as possible.

 

He brings it up again nearly two months later. There’s a shifter tearing through families in Oklahoma, and it hardly takes Sam mentioning it to have Dean saying yes.

 

Of course, wrangling the shifter into taking on his form is tricky. They have to let it think that it’s got the upper hand, and there’s a split second where Sam’s breath catches before he’s sure that the Dean in front of him isn’t his. It takes a few moments for the shifter to die properly, silver swimming through its system, but it gets there eventually.

 

The motel they’re staying it is made up of individual cabins, making it easy to sneak the body inside. Sam cleans up the body for Dean, just like always. He arranges it carefully on the bed, dressed in a clean white nightie, same as all the others. The only difference this time is a wavy, blonde wig.

 

Dean can barely move on his own, and Sam has to undress him when Dean proves too shaky to manages the buttons and zips. This time, Sam stays close, warmth just out of Dean’s sphere as he kneels on the bed.

 

“Sammy . . .”

 

“Go on, Dean. It’s okay.”

 

With a little shiver, Dean nods, sliding up between his double’s legs. There are no breasts to fondle here, but that’s okay. Full lips press back against Dean’s, glassy green eyes brighter than any of the others. It takes Dean some doing to ignore the soft cock and balls, but the hole is tighter than any he’s ever had.

 

“C-can’t last. God, I can’t, Sammy.”

 

“Just do what you have to, Dean.”

 

With a low, broken sound, Dean thrusts hard and fast, snapping his hips. The body rocks with his motions and the bed creaks dangerously, but he can’t stop himself now. His gaze is locked on green eyes and light freckles, drawn by blonde hair.

 

It’s over too soon, but Dean comes so hard he can barely breathe. Sam has to help him up, shifting him over to the clean bed. He cradles Dean against his side, brushing away his tears with gentle hands and shushing is quiet sobs.

 

“S-Sam, the body-”

 

“Shh, Dean. Not right now. It will keep.”

 


End file.
